


Nothing Brings Me All Things

by drneroisgod



Category: H.I.V.E. Series - Mark Walden
Genre: AU: Lucy Lives in This One, Bisexual Wing Fanchu, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Illness, Pansexual Lucy Dexter, aroace Shelby Trinity, as it turns out the contessa is catholic! how about that, gay Nigel Darkdoom, mlm Franz Argentblum, mlm Otto Malpense, queer hive, wlw Laura Brand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24852643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drneroisgod/pseuds/drneroisgod
Summary: So many of the mishaps (i.e. getting shot, getting possessed by supercomputers, getting kidnapped, etc.)  in the H.I.V.E. series are a direct result of their devious adventures and general derring-do from day-to-day—but not in these short stories! Nope! Everyone gets to have ONE very serious illness or injury that has absolutely nothing to do with firefights or murderous computers, and these stories are here to HYPE! UP!  SOME! DRAMA! Everyone deserves to be miserable in bed and have their friends express their deepest sympathies, and I'm here to make it happen.
Relationships: Franz Argentblum/Nigel Darkdoom, Laura Brand/Lucia Sinistre | Lucy Dexter, Nigel & Diabolus, Wing Fanchu/Otto Malpense
Comments: 22
Kudos: 20





	1. Wing

Otto was, by now, accustomed to his best friend’s droning snore. After a few years as Wing’s roommate, Otto was intimately familiar with its adagios and crescendos, its mellow wax and wane. So of course he knew something was wrong. 

“Wake up.” Otto frowned—he never got the jump on Wing, even during sleep. He reached for Wing’s wrist and found the skin damp and clammy. “Come on, big guy, wake up.”

Wing blinked slowly. “Otto?” he moaned. Otto helped him sit up.

“That’s it,” Otto said, mentally tugging at H.I.V.E.’s internal network. “We’re going to the clinic. H.I.V.E.mind, I’m requesting emergency clearance to leave our cell. Wing’s really sick.”

H.I.V.E.mind winked to life on Otto’s blackbox. “Is Mr. Fanchu capable of walking down to the clinic?”

Wing burst into a violent coughing fit, his desperate gasps chasing after a breath he simply couldn’t catch. Otto pressed his hand to Wing’s back and rubbed in slow circles. 

“It might be better if you sent a wheelchair,” Otto said. 

“You may expect a nurse at your door in 4.67 minutes,” H.I.V.E.mind informed them, utterly calm. 

“Don’t worry, big guy. Help is on the way.”

Wing labored over his next few breaths, clearly trying to gather the air to say something. “I— need—”

“Don’t try to talk,” Otto said. “Can I get you something? Water?”

Wing nodded emphatically. Otto slipped into their shared bathroom, where he held Wing’s water cup and a clean washcloth under the tap. 

“Take it slow,” Otto admonished, taking a seat on Wing’s bed. Wing took a few sips as Otto lifted his usually-pristine ponytail—now messy and tangled—and placed the damp washcloth on the back of his neck. As another coughing fit took hold, Wing leaned into Otto, who continued to murmur encouraging words.

 _I wonder if it’s contagious_ , said a nasty little voice in the back of Otto’s mind. _Shut up_ , Otto said firmly.

The door chimed. “We’re here,” Otto called. 

The doors opened for a nurse wheeling a chair, which he set aside to approach his patient. “Do you know when it started?”

“A few days ago.” Otto rose with a surge of urgency. The chair was here! It was time to go! But the nurse evaluated Wing calmly, pulling out a stethoscope and listening to his chest. 

“Breathe in for me. Again. Very good. One more time.”

Otto folded his arms and stood solid as he watched, refusing to release the tension building in his mind by fidgeting. 

“All right Wing,” the nurse said. “Let’s take you down to the clinic.”

Wing’s breaths came raspier as he stood and collapsed down into the chair. The nurse carefully maneuvered Wing out into the hall, where Otto was waiting.

“I’m coming,” Otto said firmly.

The nurse looked neither surprised nor particularly interested by this news. “That’s fine, but the guards will escort you back when we have him settled.”

Otto could not help but wish that the nurse would _walk faster_ , that he could guide the elevator straight down to H.I.V.E.’s medical facilities and lead a doctor by hand to Wing’s side. Otto was the sort of person who made things happen—and it had nothing to do with the small supercomputer hooked into his brain. Otto’s strengths were in making plans, assigning resources, building tools, running towards the danger. None of that was helpful now. This was the sort of danger that asked not for running or building, but for constant care and expert treatment. 

Otto didn’t think he’d ever seen Wing hunched over the way he was now. His hair fell around his face in wispy curtains. Otto couldn’t see if his eyes were open. 

When they reached the clinic, they let Otto stay to see Wing secured on a bed. Wing hardly opened his eyes as his nurses dressed him in a pale blue gown, nor acknowledged as one of the nurses tugged out the elastic in his hair and set it on the bedside table. Otto looked between the nurses and the doctor, who read over the diagnostics taken in their cell. He wished they would say something. 

Wing coughed again. Otto took his hand—he didn’t know what else to do.

“We’ll be giving Mr. Fanchu some tests,” the doctor said to Otto. “But offhand, I’d guess he has a bad case of pneumonia. We’ll do everything we can for him.”

“Can I see him tomorrow?” Otto said, not standing, even though his escort waited for him at the door.

The doctor gave Otto a helpless smile. “We’ll see.”

Otto knew he couldn’t stay. They’d been more than generous as it was. Otto released Wing’s hand—a second later Wing’s fingers were clamped back around Otto’s wrist. 

“No,” Wing breathed. 

“I’m sorry, big guy,” Otto said, pulling himself loose. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

At the door, Otto looked back. Wing was the picture of sickness, snotty and swollen and exhausted. He stared at Otto with tearful, red eyes and, as Otto turned his back, it occurred to him that Wing was scared.

The night was long and troubled. Wing suspected this was probably the worst illness he’d ever been through, and he idly wished that it were his mother or Lao bustling in once an hour to check on him and write down his body’s mathematics. His mother knew computers, not cures, but Wing remembered that her cool hands once soothed his fevers, and her arms held him as they inhaled steam from the shower. Lao was a traditionalist: he believed that keeping your bowels regular and a healthy dose of fresh air were essential restoratives when one was under the weather.

There was no fresh air at H.I.V.E.

Shortly after Otto’s departure, his medical staff had outfitted him with a mask and an IV, giving him something to reduce the swelling in his lungs, and for the first time in days, Wing felt like he could breathe. It still hurt. There were still red flecks of mucus drying onto his mask from his worse coughing fits. But after being so miserable for so long, the tinned air offered him his first relief since he’d come down with… whatever this illness was.

Was he silly to long for sympathy? Not just the murmurs and affirmations from the medical staff, but everything his mother and teacher once did for him. He wanted them, but he couldn’t have them; he couldn’t have them, but he wanted the same things they once brought him. Hot mugs of medicinal tea. Warm soup with vegetables. Extra blankets. Comics, mangas, books, cartoons. They’d take his temperature and his dirty dishes and ruffle his ponytail on their way out. 

He missed the history he had with them. If not history, then custom.

His mother and Lao knew him. Perhaps not all of him, perhaps not the best of him, but enough to know they loved something he also loved in himself. 

They knew what he liked to read and how he defended himself when training. They kept his birth certificate and naturalization papers in a fireproof safe under the steps. They held his hand as they registered him for school and remembered to make his favorite foods on Friday nights, when his mother would come home late from work and they would eat on their back porch in the summer heat.

Wing was aware that it was four in the morning, and that he had had very little sleep lately, and that he was liable to let his emotions run away with him. Pinned down beneath his shuddering lungs, he was aware he had little else to do but think, and not everything one thinks should be taken as wisdom.

But his mother and Lao were gone. His mother forever. If he ever saw Lao again, he wouldn’t be the same boy that Lao had once loved. He would walk off kilter from the world. If he was to be known, he would be known by his deeds and by his words—no one would know that he had once been a little boy with a lingering croupy cough, who became a feverish older boy who missed five days of school, who became a teenager who breathed recycled air inside a volcano and wished for things at night. 

He wished Otto might know. He wished it were Otto who would remember. Who, in years and years, would bring him soup for a sniffly nose, flowers on a rainy day, heat within cold blankets. 

Wing’s greatest fear was that Otto would laugh at these wishes. Otto was so cerebral and deft with his words that his laughter seemed to undo even the most salient points presented to him. Wing could imagine, clear as a dream, asking Otto if he, too, wished to watch the sunrise from beneath the same bedsheet, and Otto’s chuckle shattering Wing’s hopes. What could he say in his defense? Wing had no thorough argument for the love he had to give. His admiration lacked a table of contents, a thesis statement, or a reference list (though, somehow, it seemed full of footnotes). Wing loved without logic, and he could not imagine a love so simple moving Otto Malpense.

It didn’t matter, anyway. In a few years they would graduate, and, like his mother, like Lao, Otto would be gone. They would have six years of memories together to bind them as friends, and nothing else.

 _He’s such a lonely boy_ , his mother once worried, unaware of her son listening on the stairs.

 _It does not matter if he is alone_ , his father replied. _What is important is that he is strong._

Still. It would not be so bad, Wing thought to himself with an inescapable sadness, to be known by Otto. It would not be so bad to come home late from work and eat on the back porch with Otto. He didn’t know what they would talk about and he did not care. It would be enough to sit together, knees bumping, staring up at a sky full of stars together. And there would be fresh air for miles and miles and miles. 

Otto and Shelby walked from their latest tactical education course together, though their minds were not on the lesson. 

“That sounds so scary,” Shelby said. “He seemed like he was on the mend just a few days ago.”

Otto massaged his temples. “I should have asked him to visit the clinic earlier. Maybe we would have caught it then.”

“Don’t blame yourself.” Shelby squeezed Otto in a side-hug. “Sometimes these things happen. The important thing is that Wing’s going to be okay.”

“Speaking of which, I should go visit him,” Otto said. “The doctors okayed a short visit, so long as he’s awake when I visit.”

Shelby grinned. “Say hello from me and Laura. We’ll be in to see him as soon as he’s strong enough.”

Otto couldn’t help but break into a run as Shelby released him. Members of a security patrol yelled at him to slow down, but he didn’t. It was only when he made the turn and could see the receptionist’s desk that he forced himself to walk, but his heart rate seemed only to increase in his chest. 

“Mr. Malpense for Mr. Fanchu, I presume?” The receptionist gave Otto a wry smile.

“Yes, please.”

“Just a moment. Let me make sure he’s awake and decent.”

Otto paced the waiting room. He couldn’t help it. There were times that Wing made him feel so helpless—usually in a muscles-rippling, beating-up-the-bad-guys kind of way—but as he had spent the night lying awake, worrying, his feelings reached a new low. 

“You may go in to see him, Mr. Malpense.”

Otto charged past the receptionist and flung himself into Wing’s room, where he was greeted with less carnage and medical drama than anticipated. Indeed, Wing was alone, laying in bed with a book in his lap, and he seemed to have most of his color back. His breathing had improved quite a bit, too. 

“Hello, Otto,” Wing said miserably. 

Otto couldn’t help but laugh. Wing watched Otto with an increasingly long face as his friend recovered himself. Calming down, Otto hopped onto the bed next to Wing, hip to hip.

“I’m sorry,” Otto apologized. “I know it’s not funny. But you scared me half to death last night, and you’re looking so much better now, but you sound so— so serious!”

“Pneumonia _is_ serious,” Wing said. “The doctors said so.”

“You’re right,” Otto said, taking Wing’s hand in his, as he had the night before. “And I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better? Do you need anything from our room?”

Wing suddenly seemed unable to meet Otto’s gaze. Otto’s eyes dropped to Wing’s stiff hand, and he realized he may have overstepped. Gently, he returned Wing’s hand to the bed, and pasted a brave smile onto his face. 

“Perhaps I should let you rest some more,” Otto said.

Wing did not say anything for a few seconds. Otto was about to reach for his backpack when Wing whispered, “Do you think I will be alone forever?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Wing stared at his hands, and didn’t say anything else. Otto contemplated Wing for a few more moments, and took Wing’s hand in his own again. 

“What are you saying, Wing?” Otto said gently. 

“Last night I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother and father, and Lao,” Wing said, his breath hitching as he became more animated. “And— and— and— you.”

With his free hand, Otto pushed Wing’s shoulders back into the bed. “Slow down. I’m listening. You don’t have to rush.”

Wing looked even more miserable than before. “They are gone,” he said. “All the people who ever loved me are not with me anymore. No one will know me the way they did and,” Otto noticed that Wing seemed to be fighting tears, “what if no one knows me like that ever again?”

Otto scooted forward on the bed. He saw that some of Wing’s hair was falling into his face, but something kept him from touching Wing’s face to fix it.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Wing said. “You do that when you think people are stupid.”

“You aren’t stupid,” Otto said firmly, squeezing Wing’s hand. “And you’re not alone, either. You still have me.”

Here Wing’s face broke into a mirthless smile. “Do I?”

“If you’re trying to pick a fight, it won’t work,” Otto said, bending forward so their faces were only inches apart. “Wing, you’re smart and brave and kind. You are the most skilled fighter I’ve ever met, and you made this place special to me when it was still kind of a nightmare. You have me, believe me. But if the thing you’re really afraid of is losing the people you love, then having me will not be enough.”

A single tear traced down Wing’s cheek, and for a few moments he seemed too surprised to speak. “Then what do I do?” he whispered.

“You hold onto the people you have while you can,” Otto said.

“Then hold me,” Wing said, and Otto obliged, wrapping his arms around Wing’s still-shuddering chest and relaxing into a reciprocal embrace. Otto didn’t know how long they stayed that way, but eventually a nurse tapped on the door to ask would they please stop, because Wing’s heart rate monitor was acting funny.

“I should let you rest,” Otto said. “But I’ll be back. We can talk more then.”

“Yes,” Wing said, and Otto was pleased to note a brightness returning to his eyes that had been absent ever since he’d taken a turn. “Come back soon. And Otto?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell the girls about this. Or Franz. Not yet.”

Otto shouldered his pack and grinned. “What about Nigel?”

“Not Nigel either. Franz and Shelby will hurt him until he tells.”

Otto leaned down to take Wing’s hand one last time and press his lips to his knuckles. “Very well. I promise.”

As Otto walked to the dining hall, a small voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he should think of a convincing report to relay regarding the state of Wing’s health. No doubt his friends would see through the smile on his face in an instant. But even so, Otto preferred to sit in the corner of his mind where he imagined his last day at H.I.V.E., diploma in hand and ready to leave. There would be the handshakes, the hugs, the high-fives, and then, standing in the hangar bay, Otto would at last turn to Wing and ask, “Where to next?”

He could hardly wait to find out.


	2. Franz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: serious injury (compound fracture), but not described in graphic detail, animal cruelty mention, animal death mention, fatphobia/queerphobia mention 
> 
> (But! Don't worry. There's a happy ending.)

Franz cried when he saw it. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t so much the pain—the pain, the pain, the pain—as the discovery. He knew something was wrong immediately. He heard it. He felt it. Those two things were enough to know. 

He looked. 

And he cried: his diaphragm had already curled around a sob, and now it was too late to stop its release. _My arm is broken_ , he thought, vaguely. _It is bent the wrong way._

Of course, everyone was watching. The other students did their best to temper their voyeurism with still faces and obedient silence while Colonel Francisco barked orders. Franz could still see the whites of their eyes and the cool, lazy way they surveyed the blood and the bone and the boy, still crying. 

Once, in his father’s laboratories, he watched a pair of scientists contemplate a degloved rat, still squealing in pain. They did not laugh, and yet he somehow knew that the rat’s suffering was no source of displeasure to them. 

Something in himself had come ungloved, just now. There was the bone, staring back through his skin, pitiful and pathetic as a rat’s bleeding tail. Yet he got the feeling that they, his peers, were watching him—watching, watching, watching—instead for the tears that, once spilled, could not be uncried.

There was a surgery. Franz, of course, did not remember it—anaesthesia is a gift—but he did remember Nigel being there. 

“Try to count backwards from ten,” Nigel said, squeezing Franz’s good hand.

Franz could not remember if he had managed to count at all. Now he laid in bed, still a little foggy and lethargic, his radius and ulna restored to their rightful positions, and though the cast on his arm was uncomfortable and bulky, it was not a terrible thing to behold. 

_And that_ was _something terrible_ , he agreed to himself. 

It was probably past dinner by now. What were they saying about him, he wondered? Who was laughing? H.I.V.E. was a school that loved to talk, and Franz was the kind of kid who was too fat, too queer, too inarticulate to have escaped the vicious gossip. He knew that, even among his friends, he was never fully safe here. 

Now he was the boy who cried after he’d broken his arm. Just another line on the list. 

Franz thought he remembered Nigel promising to be there when he woke up. He was glad he wasn’t. Suddenly, Franz wasn’t much interested in seeing anybody. 

_“Be gentle with him,” said his mother, hovering protectively. “He’s so little.”_

_“I would never hurt him,” Franz said staunchly._

_In his hands, he held a little black hamster who peered up at him with curious, shiny eyes. Franz smiled. His first pet! And Dad said that if he showed he could be responsible with a little animal, they could finally talk about getting a dog!_

_Franz walked his hamster back to his cage and set him inside. The hamster was a soft and round and busy thing. He climbed up his cage to drink from the hanging water bottle. He waddled over to his wheel and began to run. Franz couldn’t tell if the hamster could recognize its own reflection in the little mirror, but the mirror was thoroughly inspected by tiny tongue and teeth. Franz laughed at that._

_“What are you going to call him?” his mother asked._

_Franz beamed at her. “Nightmare.”_

Franz was served his dinner in bed. They let him order whatever he wanted, and so he had a feast of creamy potato soup and peppers stuffed with ground beef, mushrooms, and vegetables, with pudding for dessert. They also let him watch TV while he ate, and so he did. Being sick had its privileges. 

He hadn’t been able to eat since breakfast—and they’d made him skip lunch—so Franz found his dinner akin to coming alive again. It was late at night (too late for visitors, a nurse told him, although several had tried before lockdown), and here was Franz, reminding his arms that they were hardy, reminding his bones that they were hale, reminding his heart and brain that they were still living.

Everything seemed a little better after he had some food in his belly. 

Still, the movie couldn’t distract him from earlier in the day. It felt like too much to remember. There was his partner, Jordan, watching him with his grappler hooks. Them, crashing into each other on the line, and Franz falling. The sound. The agony. 

Franz wished he would not think about his classmates watching him cry. He had cried! He was a loser, fine. But didn’t they know it was rude to stare? Didn’t they know that broken arms _hurt_?

Someone—Colonel Francisco, probably, or his father—would tell him to be strong. To use this as inspiration to never be caught with his pants down again. 

That, too, made Franz want to cry. Somehow, he suspected that the weak thing in him that they didn’t like was too close to his heart to be safely excised. The weak thing in him that they didn’t like, that he didn’t like, was there to stay.

_“Cry-baby, cry-baby!” one of the other kids shouted. “Teacher! Franz is a cry-baby!”_

_Franz buried his face in his hands, peeking through the slats in his fingers to see the other students giggling at each other. His face was hot and pink and he would have traded the world to be alone at this minute._

_“Your mother told me about your pet,” his teacher said gently. “I’m sorry to hear he passed.”_

_“I took such good care of him,” Franz cried._

_His teacher nodded. “It sounds like he got sick. There’s nothing that anyone could have done. It happens sometimes.”_

_Franz had nothing to say to that._

_“Why don’t you go sit in the hall until you compose yourself?”_

_He rose, all eyes on him._

_“It was just a_ hamster _,” hissed one girl snidely._

_Franz gulped down another wet wail and let himself into the hallway. The air was cooler out there. He was not alone. Felix, his classmate, sat quietly with his knees up to his chin._

_“Were you naughty, too?” he asked._

“Hey, look, he’s alive!”

Franz couldn’t help but smile as his friends stampeded through his door the next morning. Nigel led the procession, a cheerful vase of marigolds tucked in his arm, with Shelby, Laura, Wing, and Otto dragging chairs and bulky bookbags across the linoleum. 

Shelby hopped into the bed on Franz’s uninjured side and threw a congenial arm around his shoulder. “How ya doin’, honey?”

“Not so bad,” Franz grinned. “I will probably be discharged later today. Shouldn’t you be having breakfast?”

“We thought we’d bring the breakfast to you,” said Laura, pulling six bowls and spoons from her bag. Otto pulled out a box of cereal and Wing procured milk (both cow and almond), as well as peaches, blueberries, and strawberries.

“It’s nothing fancy,” Otto said. “But we were in a rush. And the kitchen staff are mean!”

“They’ve been manipulated too many times to fall for a pretty face,” Laura chided. “You shouldn’t trust to luck so much.”

Otto scoffed. “I don’t believe in luck.”

“Never heard that one before,” Nigel said, rolling his eyes and placing his vase on the bedside table. He took a seat at Franz’s feet. “Strawberries, please.”

Franz watched his friends settle in, quick and efficient, as though they’d rehearsed for breakfast before swinging through the door—and, he supposed they had. With Nigel to his right, Wing, Otto, and Laura pulled up in chairs, and Shelby sprawled out on his left, everyone had taken the same seating order as they always chose in the dining hall.

“ _Franz_ ,” Shelby burst, “you should have _heard_ Francisco yell at Jordan yesterday. I’ve never seen him so mad!”

“Yeah,” Otto added. “Like, he’s always mad, but never this mad.”

“What did he say?” Franz asked, already nervous.

“I believe he reprimanded Jordan for using poor line safety,” Wing said. “I don’t remember exactly what he said. There was something about him getting detention for a month.”

“That asshole!” Laura grumbled. “I think he crashed into you on purpose, Franz. If Francisco weren’t planning to teach him a lesson, I’d hunt him down myself.”

“So brave,” Otto teased.

“Does it hurt much?” Nigel asked, gesturing to Franz’s cast.

Franz shrugged. “Only a little. They’ve given me the medicine, and that keeps the edge off.”

Shelby shuddered, rocking the bed a little. “It was a gruesome one, dude. I mean, Wing threw up when he saw.”

“I did not!”

“He kept it in his mouth,” Shelby conceded. “Point is, you were really brave. I would have been terrified.”

Franz poked at his cereal glumly. “I _was_ terrified.”

“Well, yeah,” Laura said. “But you made it through, and nothing else matters.”

Franz opened his mouth to protest again. He _hadn’t_ been brave—he’d made a fool of himself and cried in front of the class. He’d been scared the whole time. But, looking around at his friends, none of them seemed interested in pressing the point. 

Shelby said he was brave. They all had his back against Jordan. Was that all?

“I was thinking about my pet hamster after the surgery,” Franz said instead. “Back in primary school.”

“Aw,” Laura cooed. “What was his name?”

“Nightmare.”

They all laughed at that, even Franz himself. It was a little dramatic. But then, the Silent Death had always had a flair. He asked, “Did you have pets before you came here?”

“Don’t get Laura started,” Shelby sighed. 

“Wait, how many?” Otto asked.

Laura beamed, letting them sit with the anticipation before exclaiming, “Sixteen!”

“Sixteen?” Wing frowned. “How?”

Laura was more than happy to go down the list. By the time his friends had to leave for class, Franz had learned the names of three dogs, four cats, two frogs, two guinea pigs, four betta fish, and one bearded dragon—and also that Laura’s mom was a veterinarian. 

It occurred to Franz that he liked his friends. He waved goodbye cheerfully, reminding them to visit again at lunch (“How are we going to steal a salad bar?” Shelby whined), and reminding himself that he was not truly as alone as he had felt yesterday.

“Wait!” Nigel called from the hallway. “I forgot something!”

Nigel tore back into the room. Franz looked around, puzzled. No one had left anything behind, as far as he could tell. Nigel skidded to a halt in front of the bed, and without preface bent down and planted a kiss on Franz’s forehead.

“Okay, now I’m ready for school!” he crowed, and ran back out of the room. 

“Have a good day!” Franz called, but he didn’t need to. It already was.


	3. Lucy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: animal death, religion/homophobia mention

Lucy finds, over time, that no one really knows how to talk to her. She finds comfort in the fact that it’s simpler with her friends than most. Sitting beneath a canvas tent in the sandy scrub, it’s easy to talk about sunburns and homework assignments, bug bites and military rations. At least, until it isn’t.

“Stop scratching,” Shelby says, frowning at Laura. “You’ll make it worse.”

Laura is testy from the heat and heated about their test. “It itches!” she complains. Shelby plucks her fingers from the red welts on her legs and holds them; Lucy does her best to seem as though she is not watching out the corner of her eye. Laura grabs her hands away from Shelby, sneering. “I hate it here.”

“I’m ready to leave, too,” Nigel says. He did not do very well on their assignment, either. “I’m tired. I don’t ever want to think about today again.”

“Once Wing and Otto are being back from their tests, it is just me and Lucy,” Franz says consolingly, though he and Lucy are just as sweaty and red-faced as the students who have been out and back again. “Then we’ll go. It’s just a little longer.”

“That’s all well and good for you, Franz!” Laura stands suddenly, snatching her water from the table and casting a scalding glare his way. “But some of us have to retake the test tomorrow!” She looks like she might cry, or scream, or evaporate on the spot. Pulling her hat low over her eyes she storms out into the sunlight, kicking sand and hissing profanities at the lizards.

Shelby looks like she wants to follow her, but she looks miserable, too: her eyes are red and swollen from the sunscreen trickling down from her forehead. 

“I’ll get her,” Lucy says. 

She steps out from under the shade and follows Laura down the hill a ways.

“Laura, we can get heat stroke out here,” Lucy calls. “Let’s go back.”

Laura pinches her nose. “I just want,” she says, her voice breaking, “to feel like this matters.” 

Laura starts scratching at a bug bite on her arm and Lucy takes a step closer. In the corner of her eye, she sees an oil slick mirage amid the yellowing grass. The world is full to bursting with that heat, every atom in the air its own flame, and still Lucy reaches out and takes Laura’s hand in her own. Laura looks at their hands as if into a furnace, squinting and confused, and then into Lucy’s dark eyes.

“Let’s go back,” Lucy says.

“Okay,” Laura says wearily. 

They stand still.

“We have to go, Laura.”

“I know.”

Lucy takes a step backwards. Still tangled in Lucy’s fingers, Laura follows.

Lucy does not know where she is when she takes off the blindfold. Colonel Francisco hands her a heavy backpack sloshing with water and a compass and a map.

“Good luck,” he says. Then he runs to the shroud and hops in as the engines whisper to life. Lucy is alone. She is not, however, afraid. She pulls out the map and follows the lines with her eyes, glances at her compass, estimates the angle of the sun. She knows what to do, and so even though she is hot, even though she is sweaty, even though she is more disappointed than she can say, she takes a confident step forward, and she knows that when she is done walking, she will see her friends in the tent again. 

She does not know what she will say to Laura. Laura did not seem to want to say anything to her.

Go figure.

The sunlight predisposes her to anger. What did she expect? What did she want? Was it so crazy to imagine that Laura would feel what Lucy was feeling? That their eyes would meet, and they would know?

In one of her last conversations with her grandmother, she asked about the family portraits hung on the walls of their estate.

“Where are all the boys?” she asked, because she had been much younger then. “Did you have a husband?”

“The women in our family are destined for great power, but not great love,” the Contessa told her. Had she been wistful, or was it just that Lucy wished for the wistfulness? “For too many of our ancestors, a long marriage meant a difficult, submissive life. And we are too strong to find that satisfying.”

Lucy looked at her mother’s photo; she did not look away, even when her eyes started to water and her chest started to ache.

“Do you know who my dad was?” she asked.

The Contessa set a sympathetic hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, my dear,” she said. “But I’m afraid I don’t.”

In the blinding desert heat, Lucy finds her eyes tearing at the memory, and she brings the water spigot to her mouth, swallowing as much as she can.

“ _Stop crying,_ ” she says, but it is of no use. You can’t use the gift on yourself. 

Still, she does her best to set that grief to the side, because she still has a ways to go and arid biomes are a terrible place to lose moisture.

There is not any particular biome well-suited for nursing a broken heart.

After about an hour’s walk, she stops for a break. She lets her backpack fall to the ground—she only has about a fourth of the tank left. She stretches her arms high above her head, her wrists squeezing through the tight cuffs of her long sleeves. She stretches her back, her neck, her glutes. In the distance, something moves, and instantly she crouches down.

It’s only a gazelle. Lucy lets herself take a few steps forward, still holding back. She would watch for hours if she could, but, of course, the sun is too hot and the journey home is still waiting. Lucy is one hundred meters away from something beautiful. Dainty antlers, dainty face, dainty ankles. 

If the voice worked on animals, she would ask it to come. 

As it is, she watches the gazelle nibble in the brush as though it is the only other creature in the world. In that moment, Lucy doesn’t worry about the assignment, or her family, or Laura. For all the heat and the absence of human contact, this place is beautiful: the sky is an open blue that brushes the mountain range at the horizon. The dry grass sways in the warm breeze, and, Lucy realizes, it is peaceful. 

The gazelle catches her scent on the wind and turns tail. Lucy cannot blame it. She has to be going, too. She turns her back, begins walking towards her backpack. She is not prepared for the explosion. 

_BANG!_

Lucy turns. Where the gazelle used to be, there is smoke. Dirt clods and other debris fall mere meters from her feet. Land mine. Lucy grabs her backpack and begins walking quickly towards home, glancing backward every now and again even as she also watches her feet. It was the distance that saved her from the poor gazelle’s fate. She doesn’t know if this is part of the test. She suspects it is not, and she doesn’t know what that means.

But, in the end, it is still the explosion that gets her. 

In the dry desert amid the stiff grass, all it takes is a spark. When Lucy sees the orange of the flames following her, she hits her distress beacon without a second thought. She breaks into a jog, keeping her spigot in her mouth and sucking as she moves. The flames are faster than she is.

When the water runs out, she throws down the backpack and rips the tracker from the bottom of the bag and stuffs it in her pocket. She holds the compass in her hand, and she runs again. 

She is going to die. She tries to avoid thinking about this. In the back of her mind, her mother’s voice tells her to keep a positive attitude. Lucy tries.

She runs. And she runs. And she runs.

It is not enough. 

Soon enough the flames cross her path, and Lucy adjusts her course to get out of the way, knowing that, if she is not rescued, she will probably not live long enough to worry about getting lost. The map is not in her pocket anymore, but the tracker is.

All it takes is a spark. 

Once, long ago, it was a torch that lit the pyres of the revered dead. “And, in those old days, we _were_ revered,” her grandmother assured her. But it didn’t last. 

Pyres became stakes. Stakes became muskets, and muskets became combustion engines, electric chairs, and shock therapy.

“Your grandmothers were extremely misunderstood,” the Contessa had said. “We have always been different.”

And yet, Lucy thought, it always ended the same. Her mother turned the key in her ignition, and, like that, she was gone. Her grandmother dropped her cigarette and incinerated some forty souls beyond her own. It isn’t long before she, Lucy, finds the burning landscape scrabbling at her ankles and working its way up her calves. 

She throws herself at the sandiest patch of ground in sight and rolls. It hurts. She doesn’t stop. Here is one witch who will not be burned—who defies burning. The flames grow higher around her. Overhead, a shroud decloaks. Lucy can’t run anymore. 

“Don’t you EVER scare us like that again!” Shelby shouts, storming into Lucy’s hospital room. She is not alone. The rest of their friends crowd through the doorway, and Lucy regrets agreeing to see them all at once. “We thought you were going to die!”

Lucy forces a smile. “That thought crossed my mind, too.”

“Well, it’s a terrible thought, and we all hate it,” Otto says, taking a seat on her bed. “We have decided that you are simply not allowed to die.”

“I’ll do my best,” Lucy promises.

“And perhaps, in the future, you should avoid starting brush fires that destroy three hundred acres of land,” Wing says gravely, but Lucy can tell he is teasing.

“Hey, that wasn’t me,” she says. “A gazelle stepped on a land mine or something. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Well, you might want to change your story before you talk to anyone else,” Laura whispers conspiratorially. “Because, thanks to you, the rest of the exercise has been cancelled. You’re a hero.”

They all laugh. 

“On that note,” Colonel Francisco says, appearing in the doorway. “I need five of you to get to the shrouds. We’re wheels up in fifteen. Lucy, the doctors say you can’t be moved for a few days. You can choose one person to keep you company until then.”

“Laura, would you?” she asks.

Laura doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

“Then the rest of you, let’s head out,” Francisco orders. “The local government is on its way and we are to do everything in our power to avoid them. Nero’s orders. Let’s move out!”

As suddenly as they came, they are gone, and it is only Lucy and Laura left to speak quietly.

“The colonel pulled us aside earlier to update us,” Laura says. “There are a few guards we know from H.I.V.E. at the door, and the doctors helping you are on G.L.O.V.E.’s staff. It’s all taken care of.”

Lucy frowns. “Did you hear what they said?” she asks. “About me?”

“I know you were on fire when they found you,” Laura says cautiously. 

“It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” Lucy says. “But I have second- and third-degree burns on about twenty-five percent of my body.”

Lucy tries not to cry, but she can’t help it. Laura slides in close and wraps Lucy in her arms, holding her as tightly as she dares. They sit like that a long time, until the worst of it is over. Lucy still remembers what they did not say the last time they spoke. She prefers to get all the painful moments over with at once.

“I like you.”

Laura doesn’t seem surprised, nor does she look away. But she does not smile, and Lucy had hoped she would smile.

Looking back, Lucy does not remember her mother or grandmother having much in common at all. They held different values, remembered different ancestors, worshiped in different faiths, told different stories. But Lucy can see that, in their own way, they tried their best to protect her from the sad reality that great love can lead to great heartbreak. 

Lucy feels stupid for crying, now, and she wishes she did not pick Laura to stay.

“Lucy,” Laura sighs. “I like you, too. I really like you.”

Lucy wasn’t expecting that. She wipes at her eyes, and she takes Laura’s hand, which is now coated with plasters, and strokes it with her thumb. “But?”

“But I’m just not sure about… this.” Laura gestures at the space between them. “I don’t know! What would my parents say? They always said— Well, they wouldn’t—”

“My grandmother was Catholic,” Lucy says. “I know how it is.”

Laura squints, completely distracted. “The Contessa? But didn’t she… I don’t know. Kill lots of people and do a bunch of crimes?”

“I’m not saying she was a _good_ Catholic,” Lucy says. “I’m just saying, it took her a long time to understand the kind of person I am. I’m not sure she ever understood. I was just lucky that she had a soft spot for misunderstood girls.”

“I don’t think I understand myself yet,” Laura replies, and she says it like a confession. 

Lucy leans close to Laura’s face. “Then we already have something in common,” she smiles, and kisses her. Laura kisses her back, and together they are something sweet and salty, like tears. Laura gasps as they break apart.

“That was nice,” she realizes, and she is smiling, too. 

“Want to do it again?” Lucy asks.

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Lucy slides down in her bed, tenderly nursing an ember that has started to glow in her chest. This is the kind of spark she doesn’t mind so much.

“You look tired,” Laura tells her. “I should let you rest.”

Lucy looks up at her. “Will you go to the dance with me?”

Laura groans, and her groan turns into a laugh. “You just never give up, do you?”

“Never,” Lucy swears, and it’s true. “It’s a family trait.”


	4. Laura

**Four Weeks Ago**

“What do you think?” Professor Pike asked, surveying the computer banks, their haphazard wiring and the gentle green lights. 

“I do not understand the purpose of this project,” H.I.V.E.mind said, without any particular emotion. “This computer is not sophisticated enough to meet any of H.I.V.E.’s needs. Furthermore, most of its coding appears to be incomplete.”

“It’s not supposed to be complete, Big Blue,” Laura said warmly. “That’s the whole point.”

H.I.V.E.mind remained unconvinced. “What is it, exactly, that you want it to do?”

“This computer shares much of your same base code,” the Professor said absently. “But with only bits and pieces of a personality matrix, and, most importantly, an inability to understand language. It was Ms. Brand’s curiosity. I’m quite interested to see what she does with it.”

“Laura,” H.I.V.E.mind said, a crease folding in his blue wireframe face. “Please.”

“I just want to see how some of these learning algorithms work in practice,” Laura said. “But not with a system quite as sophisticated as you. If you’re analogous to an adult human, then this system is much more like a wee puppy. I just want to see how long it takes to teach this baby computer a few new tricks.”

“I thought you said that you named this project Green Puppy for nostalgic reasons,” H.I.V.E.mind said.

“It’s thematically accurate as well,” Laura informed him stoically. “You’re certain that Green Puppy can’t access any other computer systems on the island, and that it is only capable of affecting the controls of this room? I truly don’t want this project to get on anyone’s nerves but my own.”

“As per your specifications, this room is all but off-the-grid, as it were,” H.I.V.E.mind said. “The manual controls are just outside.”

“And I’ve informed Dr. Nero of your project as well, Ms. Brand,” the professor said, picking up the last of his tools from the floor. “He is hopeful that there won’t be any mishaps along the way—”

“You mean like Green Puppy becoming a maniacal power-seeking despot who hopes to eradicate all organic life on earth?” Laura asked innocently.

“—but, if there are, at least he won’t be surprised,” Professor Pike finished, looking tired. “The room is keyed to your biometric signature, and myself, etcetera. But from now on, it’s all yours.”

“Thank you, professor,” Laura said, unable to hide a grin. Her own lab! Her own questions, her own work. She lingered in the cavern after the professor left, running her hands over the computer banks and double-checking the setup. 

“Who’s a good girl?” she asked fondly.

“Didn’t you design this intelligence not to understand language?” H.I.V.E.mind asked, still watching from the screen on the wall. 

“‘Yet’ being the key word, H.I.V.E.mind.” Laura turned off the lights, glancing behind her at the blue and green lights still glowing in the dark room. “She doesn’t understand language yet.”

**One Week Ago**

“This place is so cool,” Lucy said. She swept her long, dark hair over her shoulder, running her fingers through the split ends absently. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Technically, we aren’t supposed to bring food into our labs,” Laura said. “But I couldn’t think of a better place for a picnic.”

Indeed, the soft green lighting against the unfinished rock walls was, in its own strange way, beautiful. Lucy spread the blanket on the floor well away from Green Puppy’s sensitive hardware and set their table. Stealing food from the mess hall was always a chore—the act itself seemed to be encouraged; getting caught, on the other hand, was another issue—but they had what they needed. Some sparkling water, grapes, cheese, macaroni and cheese, and some sliced tomatoes. Just what every pair of young villains needs for a special occasion. 

“Happy six-month anniversary,” Laura said, lifting her plastic cup to Lucy. Lucy giggled and returned the gesture. 

Suddenly, the lights went completely dark. Only the computer’s soft green lights lit the room. Rather than being romantic, it was spooky. 

“Okay, if you’re trying to set the mood, it’s not working,” Lucy said. “This makes me feel like I might get a little murdered.”

“Sorry, it’s just Green Puppy,” Laura said, igniting the flashlight on her Blackbox. She walked to the wall and flipped the switch twice to get the lights back on. “She’s set to randomly do certain behaviors with the room—open or close the doors, turn the lights off or on, change the temperature, make noise, et cetera. I’m measuring how quickly she learns to respond to positive reinforcement training. When she does something good, like turn the lights on when I ask, then I push this button—” She gestured to a small, silver button box on the floor. “—and she learns to associate that as a reward. And if I don’t like what she does, then I ignore her. Or, in this case, I fix it!”

Lucy contemplated Laura as she glanced at Green Puppy’s display and read some of its output. 

“Now, I have no claims to being a computer genius,” she said, a pensive expression on her face. “But I distinctly remember learning about the button box theory in the professor’s class. And don’t you run the risk of growing a computer that removes you from the equation in order to push the button as many times as possible all the time? What’s the difference between this and that?”

Laura smiled awkwardly. “Well, there isn’t, really,” she said.

“Laura!”

“Don’t worry,” Laura said. “Neither the professor nor I really think that this program is really smart enough to manage a feat like that. But, just in case, we did give the program something of a… natural lifespan.”

Lucy observed Laura skeptically. “Is Green Puppy going to a farm upstate someday?”

“Something like that,” Laura said. “Besides, the button box theory is just a theory. I don’t think I have to worry about this computer planning a homicide any time soon.”

“I dunno, Brand,” Lucy said, a gleam in her eye. “Otto was filling me in on all the Overlord stuff just the other day. No one expected him to be a homicidal computer, either.”

“Think of it the other way around. If Overlord had a button for people to push then maybe he’d calm down.”

Overhead, cool air began to blow into the room. Laura reached over and tapped the button with her toe. “That’s better, isn’t it?” she said. “Good job, Green Puppy!” 

“If only I had someone to push my buttons for me,” Lucy said with mock wistfulness. “And on my six-month anniversary, too.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten about you,” Laura said, turning back to her girlfriend and pulling her in for a long kiss. 

Lucy moaned slightly as Laura pulled away, their faces still close. “I think you’re wrong,” she gasped. 

“Hm?”

“The button box theory,” Lucy said. “If that’s what getting your button pushed is like, then I know exactly how those computers feel.”

“Babe,” Laura said softly, leaning in for another kiss. “Can we stop talking about computers and just make out?”

“Oh, if you insist.”

**Eight Hours Ago**

“Hey! Can you hand me my hairbrush? I left it on my bed.” Shelby yelled from the bathroom. 

“Yes,” Laura shouted back, teasing open the bathroom door (Shelby never bothered to lock it) and tossing the brush into the sink. She glanced at her watch—running late. She grabbed her notebooks and pencil bag, stuffing them between a couple of rumpled textbooks.

Shelby was still talking. “—but the thing is, even though I’m _totally_ fine with you six hooking up or whatever, it just seems like hanging out is becoming a couples thing? And I’m not saying I’m feeling left out but also—”

“Hey, Shel, can we talk about this when I get back?” Laura called. “I am a little pressed for time right now. I have to go run some tests on Green Puppy, then there’s a chess club tournament, and my robotics team has a meeting that is supposed to go through dinner—”

“What are you still talking to me for?” Shelby asked, sticking her wet head out the bathroom door with a teasing smile. “You’re going to a chess tournament with wet hair?”

“ _Someone_ kicked me out of the bathroom!” Laura knotted her wet locks into a tight bun. “Do you have your charger handy?”

“No, I had to lend mine to Otto. His was… destroyed. I was hoping I could use yours?”

“Yes, when I find it,” Laura groaned. “I’ll borrow someone else’s at the meeting.”

“Well, have a good afternoon,” Shelby called. “I hope all the nerds think your ideas are cool!”

“Thanks, Shel,” Laura said, and ran out the door. 

She set a timer on her blackbox for twenty minutes upon entering Green Puppy’s lab. It was warm, and she wished, not for the first time, that she were not expected to do such radical experiments in such close proximity to an active volcano. Green Puppy’s fans were always running. 

“Cold air,” Laura said, and when the vents opened up, she pressed Green Puppy’s button. “Thank you, Green Puppy.”

She ran a few routine tests, added a few more lines to a few more spreadsheets, and graphed out some of her expectations for next time. Green Puppy could already recognize a few commands and already she felt she understood the inner workings of H.I.V.E. just a little bit better. 

When her timer went off, she patted the computer banks and walked to the door, pushing the button for its release. 

Nothing happened. 

She pushed the button again. And again. It was locked. Laura frowned. She had specifically ensured that the locking mechanism on the door was under H.I.V.E.mind’s control to avoid situations exactly like this. 

Scooping up her Blackbox, Laura flipped it open and sighed. In bold, blue letters, the message NETWORK NOT FOUND flickered slightly. Laura groaned. How could this be happening? She was busy today!

“Sometimes things just don’t go your way,” she sighed, repeating a refrain she had heard more than once from her mother. It looked like, for the time being, she was stuck. 

“Cold air,” she said again. At least she’d have the time she needed to cool off.

**6 Hours Ago**

Laura’s Blackbox was dead. She resolved that she would touch it once an hour to check on the network status, but that plan was a bust. It only took one try before the battery gave out and simply refused to come back. 

Laura had finished her homework. She could see from her laptop computer that she should have been in her robotics meeting by now and eating dinner (assuming, of course, that the school wasn’t on lockdown due to a military attack against the school, which was always a possibility). 

Dinner. She hadn’t thought to bring a snack with her, and there was nothing for her to eat in the lab. With the exception of an illicit date with a special girl, Laura hadn’t so much as left a spare water bottle in the lab. She still had half her bottle left. That was something. She didn’t know what she’d do when she needed to pee, but she could hold off on crossing that bridge for a little while longer. She still had hope.

She tested the lock on the door as often as she dared. She even tried to pry open the doors, but they were designed to hold up against one of those armed attacks. Without a strong lever, she doubted she’d move the doors even a millimeter.

She looked at Green Puppy’s computer setup. Green Puppy was designed to be a completely separate network to protect the school. Dr. Nero was, justifiably, concerned about lab-grown intelligence, and so there was supposed to be nothing and no way for Green Puppy to hook up to the school’s net. 

Maybe they had overlooked something. Maybe there was something she could do. Laura threw herself into her work at the computer display. She really did need to pee.

**4 Hours Ago**

She started yelling for help. It would be another hour until lockdown, and after that she couldn’t count on people happening by anymore. 

Blackbox, still dead. Doors, still locked. Laptop, still unable to connect to H.I.V.E.’s network. 

She’d finished off her water and made use of the empty bottle as a latrine. 

“Hello?” she shouted. “Hello, I need help! Help me!”

There was no response. 

_Maybe everyone died_ , Laura thought. _Maybe I’m the only one left._

 _Don’t be stupid_ , she corrected herself. _There haven’t been any explosions._

So she kept yelling. 

She started walking around the room, too. She was, she realized, starting to feel fairly cold.

When she checked Green Puppy’s display laptop, it wasn’t just her imagination. The temperature had dropped nearly ten degrees in the last four hours, and it was getting colder still. 

“Green Puppy, hot air,” she spoke aloud. She kept pacing the room, trying to warm her arms as best she could. “Hot air! Hot air!”

More cold air poured into the room. Then, too late, Laura realized her mistake. Never once had she given the computer that command before. She kicked the button spitefully. 

The temperature controls were on the laptop, at least. She could warm up. She typed in the command code to make it warmer. 

The computer did not agree: AUTHORIZATION NOT GRANTED.

And Laura sighed. She was one of the greatest hackers in the world. She knew computer code better than she knew the English language. But she had been the one who designed these security systems, and she was the one who had, in a more innocent time, restricted the functionality for this computer in the name of science. She could fix it, though, maybe. She thought she could outwit herself. She hoped she could, anyway.

**2 Hours Ago**

Laura wanted to cry. It seemed like this should be a simple task. She should know how to do this! She had felt so sure she knew what she was doing. She tucked herself in between two computer banks to keep herself warm, and did her best to out-code herself. 

But, with time, she was able to see her breath in the air. 

With time, she found frost lacing itself in the bun she had never allowed to dry out. 

With time, she ripped her backpack into strips to make makeshift mittens and head protection. Her fingers were getting stiff with the cold. She kept coding. Slower. More clumsily. (And she was hungry. And she was tired.)

The last thing that she could see on her computer screen was that it was about -10 degrees in the room. Then, the laptop couldn’t take the strain anymore.

Green Puppy was too big to be as affected by the cold yet. But the temperature kept dropping. Laura brought herself closer to the big, marginally warmer machines and stuffed her hands in her pits. 

For the first time, she began to worry that she might die.

**Midnight**

She heard voices on the other side of the door. 

“Please, help me!” she screamed. “Hello?”

“Laura, stand back!” A crackling purple katana speared through the metal doors, followed by a loud bang as the severed metal fell to the ground. Laura had never been so happy to see Raven.

“Good God! It’s freezing in here.” Raven frowned. She crossed the room in half a second, forcing Laura to look into her eyes. “Girls!”

Shelby and Lucy peered in through the door, faces dropping at the sight of their friend. 

“I need one of you to run ahead to the hospital ward and let them know that we’re dealing with hypothermia. It might be best if they meet us along the way.”

Shelby didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go.”

“Help me,” Raven said to Lucy, and together, they helped Laura up from the floor, and pulled her makeshift mittens from her hands and her makeshift scarf from her face. Laura shook so much she could hardly walk straight. Carefully, flanking both sides, they led Laura out into the warmth of the hallway.

Lucy winced. “Does she—”

“It’s not frostbite,” Raven said firmly. “Believe me, I know the difference.”

“I couldn’t call for help,” Laura said, trying to explain. “Blackbox went dead. The lock wouldn’t budge. And then I couldn’t get the temperature fixed. I tried.” She stopped short before her voice broke, but she didn't think she was able to cry right then. 

“One of the professor’s experiments went badly,” Raven said. “Different parts of the school went on the fritz. H.I.V.E.mind was down for a few hours. There were quite a few injuries.”

“You know how it goes with evil scientists,” Lucy said, shifting slightly to support Laura’s weight a little better. 

“We could have used you, actually,” Raven said. “But it wasn’t until Shelby made it back to her cell for the night that anyone realized you were missing.”

“I’m glad you came,” Laura said. “Because I don’t think I could do that all night.”

Raven didn’t say anything in response, which Laura took to mean that Raven didn’t think so, either. 

**An Hour Later**

“Just imagine,” Shelby said, after they’d settled Laura in bed. “You’re practically next-door neighbors with molten lava and you have frostnip from the cold.”

Laura didn’t want to talk about lava. She just felt tired. 

“Let her alone,” Lucy said. “She should rest.”

Shelby sighed. “Friday night and I’m chaperoning someone else’s date.”

Laura snuggled closer to Lucy, who was also in bed. “This is my medical treatment,” Laura said. “The doctors told us to do it. I’ll warm up faster this way.”

“Don’t be so sour, Shelby,” Lucy said. “There’s room for one more if you’re feeling left out.”

Shelby smiled indulgently, or something close to it. “I think I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it,” she said, standing. “Good night, y’all.”

Lucy and Laura smiled at each other sleepily after Shelby was gone, but Laura’s didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Something bothering you?” Lucy asked softly.

“I thought for sure I’d be able to fix the temperature with the computer controls,” Laura said. “I designed so much of that system. I just don’t know what went wrong! I should have done better.”

“But you know what it was, right?” 

“What do you mean?”

“The computer was trying to kill you!” Lucy said, gravely serious. “Because of that button box thing!”

Laura squinted at Lucy. “Green Puppy isn’t that advanced, Lu. It was _not_ because of the button box thing.”

“You’re too good-hearted,” Lucy said, pulling Laura closer. “It was definitely because of that button box thing.”


	5. Nigel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: an injury similar to a snakebite

Singing to plants? How cliché! Nigel liked to do it anyway. He lifted the leaves of a mutated potato plant and watered the soil beneath. 

“To avoid complications, she never kept the same address,” and, moving on to the next plant, “In conversation, she spoke just like a baroness!”

In point of fact, rock n’ roll was not good for plants, but Nigel was willing to make an exception today for three reasons:

  1. His dad was scheduled for a mid-morning arrival, and his dad had always loved Queen. 
  2. These were evil plants. They were supposed to break the rules.
  3. Nigel’s dad was right: Queen was awesome, and he was in the mood.



(That, however, was a bit of a fib. It was more fair to say he was psyching himself up for a meeting he didn’t know how to feel about.)

Nigel tended to Ms. Gonzales’ “normal” plants: that is, the regular stock of hemlock, stinging nettles, poison oak, wild parsnip, and so on that had naturally unpleasant attributes, no DNA splicing needed. (Personally, Nigel found them a bit boring.) Still in the spirit, he regaled them with “I Want to Break Free,” which was a pretty good song, you had to admit, even if you were a plant. He didn’t think about the irony until much, much later.

“Son of a bitch!” he winced, nearly dropping his watering can at the sharp, stinging pain near his ankle. His next expletive staggered in his throat as he saw the vine tendril snaking up the leg of his jumpsuit. 

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit. 

Nigel didn’t have gloves (but he hadn’t the time to worry, now). He ripped the vine from his clothing and seized his bag, concerned only with walking a good two meters away from the plant before he sat down heavily on the wet cement floor. Nigel rolled up the leg of his trousers to inspect the wound. 

It was no joke. Already, the puncture marks were bulbous and pink, about four centimeters in diameter. Nigel forced himself to take deep breaths: panicking would only kill him faster. As calmly as possible, he pulled a black marker from his pack and outlined the swelling. Then, scanning his blackbox, he noted the time on his leg.

Okay. That was one thing done. He steeled himself for the worse things to come, and opened his blackbox. 

“H.I.V.E.mind?” he said. “I need medical attention in the hydroponics lab. Immediately, please. It’s an emergency.”

“What is the nature of your emergency?” H.I.V.E.mind asked, completely unfazed. 

“I’ve been bitten by Ms. Gonzales’ venomous convolvulus,” Nigel replied, unable to keep his voice from squeaking slightly. “Please, hurry.”

“A team is already on its way,” H.I.V.E.mind replied. 

Nigel closed the box and chanced another look at his leg. Only two minutes had passed, but the swelling had extended to a sixteen centimeter diameter. It hurt as Nigel outlined the swelling, the initial stinging morphing into a prickly burning that was decidedly not conducive to his desire to stay calm. He felt dizzy; he thought he might throw up. 

Another minute, and the swelling stretched all the way around his leg. He did his best to blink away the rising tears as he traced and noted the time again. His foot was starting to tingle.

His dad would land in about two hours. Nigel could just see his dad stepping off the ramp from the Dreadnaught, greeting Dr. Nero with his trademark friendly smile, only to be duly informed that he wouldn’t be able to see his only son, on account of the fact that he was in leg amputation surgery and would probably die in the morning. 

“Nigel?” a voice called from the entrance.

“I’m here!” 

Three medics materialized next to Nigel, one cheerfully encouraging him to lean back onto the cold concrete while another congratulated him on thinking to record the rate of swelling. The third wheeled in an IV pole and began hanging a drip.

“All right, kiddo, I’m going to stick a needle into your arm,” said the second medic, firmly gripping Nigel’s elbow. 

“I’m ready,” Nigel said, and was rewarded with a sharp pinch, as promised. He watched curiously as they hooked the drip to his arm and laid out epinephrine injections alongside their medical kits. 

The first medic lifted Nigel’s wrist to take his pulse. “How does that leg feel?” she asked. 

“It burns,” Nigel said. “Pretty much everywhere that the skin is swollen. I’m also a little nauseous and dizzy.”

“If you think you’re just about to throw up and you can’t say it, just squeeze my hand,” she said. “We’re going to try to roll you over to keep that airway clear.”

Nigel found his medics good company, although he imagined he would have thought that of anyone who was actively saving his life. They were careful to explain to Nigel what they were doing and why, and, when she realized that he was curious, the medic managing his IV explained how the treatment was working and how Ms. Gonzales and H.I.V.E.’s medical team had synthesized a serum once the venomous convolvulus had taken root.

“Dr. Nero is fairly strict about ensuring that we have a treatment plan for every plant that grows in here,” she said, gesturing at the greenery surrounding them. “When Ms. Gonzales approves an experiment, we always get a copy, too, to plan for contingencies.”

“And I guess that’s why I’m alive,” Nigel murmured. “For now.”

“For now?” the second medic shook her head. “Kiddo, you’re doing just fine. You’re not dying on our watch.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to make me lie on the wet floor anymore, either?” Nigel asked, flashing what he hoped was a charming smile. His medics laughed.

“Give it another hour,” the first said. “We have you right where we want you.”

Nigel knew who his first visitor would be. Sigh. 

Snug in a starched clinic bed and still feeling rather muddled, Nigel kept expecting his father to burst through the doors in a blaze of worry and freshly hemmed cuffs, demanding to know the full itinerary of treatments planned for his son. 

Obviously, Nigel was excited to see his dad. And, of course, he wanted to tell him everything that had happened since their last meeting and, privately, make sure he was still holding up after a near-fatal gunshot wound from a few months back. Now that Nigel’s father was alive again, missing him was a privilege. 

But.

“Nigel?”

“Franz?” Nigel glanced up in surprise at his boyfriend’s voice. Sure enough, Franz was approaching with a worried expression on his face. “How did you know I was here?”

“The whole school is knowing,” Franz said dismissively. “Two classes had to be cancelled in the lab this morning. But Nigel, what happened?”

Nigel stared at his lap. “I got too close to one of Ms. Gonzales’ morning glories. Got bit. It’s my own fault.”

“Morning glories… like the flower?”

“Well, obviously she engineered them to attack passerby,” Nigel explained. “Great for the long con in suburban areas. But, well, they do their work quickly.”

“Will you be all right?”

“I might lose my leg. We’ll see.”

Franz gave Nigel the most pitying look he’d ever seen, which only made him feel worse. “It is good your father will be arriving soon,” he said. “He would want to know.”

“Mm.”

“You are angry?”

“Hm? No.”

“Your face says so.”

Nigel closed his eyes and took a breath. (Yes, he was a little angry.)

“It just figures, doesn’t it?” he said. “The one day I have something bad happen to me, my dad just happens to be arriving.”

“Isn’t that being a good thing, though?”

“No one else gets to talk to their families, Franz,” Nigel massaged his temples. “No one else has heard from their parents in years. And every time something bad happens, my dad is always there, too. It’s like… he’s always there to fix everything for me. Shouldn’t I be learning independence? How to solve problems on my own? I don’t want to leave here and have people say that my dad is the only reason I’m here.”

Franz accepted this with a calm expression on his face. “But you have so many of your own talents.”

“What difference does it make if no one sees me?”

“I see you.” Franz leaned down to kiss Nigel gently: once, twice, three times. Once more, just to be safe. “I need to get to my next class.”

“Thanks for visiting.”

“I’ll come back later,” Franz vowed. “Do you want to see the others?”

Nigel smiled ruefully. “Why not? I could use a little cheering up.”

“I’ll let them know,” Franz said, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “I’m sure Shelby and Otto will be thinking of something.”

“You awake, baby?” 

Nigel blinked himself awake, squinting in the dim lights of his room until his father’s face came into focus. 

“Hi Dad.”

(His dad had taken longer than he expected to visit. Was he supposed to be sad? Angry? Nigel didn’t know.)

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.” Diabolus Darkdoom looked tired and, somehow, deflated. Nigel knew him as a naturally proud man, whose titanium stature imbued his every action with strength. It was gone, now, replaced by a lethargy Nigel didn’t quite understand. 

“Is everything okay?” he asked. 

“No, my son nearly died today,” Darkdoom replied, smirking and cupping Nigel’s face in his hand. Nigel smiled. He knew his dad wouldn’t be really angry: to be a Darkdoom had always demanded some measure of danger. 

“Besides that,” Nigel coaxed.

“Leaving behind my role as head of G.L.O.V.E. was the right decision for me,” his father said, seriously. “But some interpreted it as a sign of weakness. Some of my interests have been facing bolder attacks. Nothing your old dad can’t handle, though.”

“That stinks.”

“Not as much as this,” Darkdoom said, clasping Nigel’s shoulder. 

Nigel looked away suddenly, thinking again of his conversation with Franz. 

His father noticed. “What’s your story?” 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Nigel said. “But I worry about what the other kids will think of me when I get to see you all the time and they don’t know what’s happened to their families since coming here.”

“Since when do we care what the other kids think?” Darkdoom chided. 

“You know what I mean,” Nigel sighed. “I don’t want special treatment just because I’m your kid. Not that I don’t like having you around,” he finished hurriedly.

“If it makes you feel any better, Max has given me similar counsel since I’ve been back. He wants to foster independence here. You have to be ready to handle villainy when I’m not here to guide you. You need to have the respect of your peers. He would never force me to stop visiting, and I’ve thought about what he’s said seriously, but—”

“But?”

“Raven had the opposite opinion. And I decided to take her advice.”

“I didn’t know you and Raven were such buddies.”

Darkdoom grinned fondly. “Oh, please. Raven and I go way back.”

“Well, what did she say?”

“She told me to visit you. Damn what anyone else says,” he paused, considering his next words. “You know, she was alone for most of her childhood. She was older than you when she met Dr. Nero. And she lost some people who mattered to her when she needed them most. Do you know why she stays here?”

(Nigel elected to say nothing. He thought he knew the answer, but then, the H.I.V.E. rumor mill was an active place and he’d heard so many things that he was more than prepared to hear his father explain that Raven and Nero were shacking up together. It was, at least, one of the more plausible theories running around.)

“Because she wants to,” Darkdoom continued, oblivious to his son’s curiosity. “She found her family here. And, as she said, in our business we have no time to waste. I’d rather spend the time that I have seeing you more than just about anything else.”

“I understand,” Nigel said. “We don’t need to care about what the other kids think.”

“We do not,” his father confirmed. “You look tired. You feeling okay?”

“No, but I’m told that’s to be expected.” Nigel propped himself up in bed. “Can we keep talking?”

Darkdoom smiled. “Absolutely. Did you have something in mind?”

“I was listening to Queen this morning,” Nigel said. “And I was thinking about that song, ‘Princes of the Universe.’”

“From the _Highlander_ movie.”

“What?”

“Oh, Nigel. Let me start at the beginning…”


	6. Otto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raven and Nero are a little OOC, but what can I say? They're the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of the story. If they weren't there to be stupid, where would I fit it in?

They looked like the Addams family, if the Addams family were disposed towards taking walks along the wharf in the heat of the day. Raven was, well, Raven. Long, black trench coat, black jeans, black t-shirt, dark sunglasses. Dr. Nero had opted for a pin-stripe suit and necktie—though, mercifully, he was clean-shaven as always. A mustache would be too surreal. 

Otto himself wore a striped jumper—black, white, navy blue in horizontal bars. When he had put on the outfit laid out for him that morning, he had thought it rather suited him. It brought out his eyes, and didn’t completely wash him out (which, unfortunately, having white hair had a tendency to do). But, standing in the company of Morticia and Gomez, Otto had to admit that he did add an uncomfortably Pugsley-esque aspect to the group.

“Do you have to do that?” Otto murmured to Raven, who was glaring at passerby universally. “We’re creeping people out.”

Raven turned her glare on Otto. As a point of dignity, she never reminded people that she was the most fearsome assassin on the planet. It was merely implied. Otto demurely averted his gaze.

“We won’t be here long,” Dr. Nero said, but he had an almost biblical ability to part crowds. “Just stand up straight and walk with purpose. Miss Trinity, please don’t wander.”

“Yes, sir,” said Shelby, pulling her gaze away from a jewelry store window and jogging to catch up with the others. Unlike her compatriots, Shelby skipped straight over Wednesday Addams and Marilyn Munster and had procured for herself a pair of overalls and a bandana. Dr. Nero had rolled his eyes but, since they were running late, had not asked her to change. 

Otto smiled at her chagrin. “Getting itchy fingers?”

“That shop is selling fakes,” Shelby said flatly.

“How do you know?” Otto asked.

“Because I’ve dealt with them before.”

Though Otto probed further, Shelby clammed up on the subject. She was often elusive about her former career as the Wraith. Though he had never asked, Otto suspected it had something to do with the fact that she hoped to return to it after graduation.

“Can we take a snack break?” Shelby asked. 

Nero guided them to an empty table beneath a red umbrella, where he handed Otto some cash. “Go, find something to eat.”

“Do you guys want anything?” Otto asked.

“Water,” Raven said. “No ice.”

“The same.”

Shelby tagged along with Otto as they navigated through the booths and shops. It occurred to Otto, as it often did when he found himself unattended, that he could use this opportunity to escape. Use the cash to hail a cab, make it to the airport, steal some cash from an ATM, and go wherever the wind pulled him.

He wouldn’t, of course. He was too invested in the current crime.

“What about there?” Otto pointed, but Shelby wrinkled her nose.

“Seafood? No thanks.”

“Well, how about that kebab place? Or the grill?”

Shelby shook her head. Otto rolled his eyes. “Well I’m going to get something from there,” he said, and went over to order. Shelby was something of a picky eater, and therefore a challenge to travel with. The only good thing was that she was principled in her pickiness, and would neither poach his chips nor complain about being hungry for the rest of the afternoon.

Her loss.

Otto returned with the water and his food, and led an empty-handed Shelby back to the table, where Nero and Raven immediately helped themselves to his chips. (He knew they would—he ordered extra.) Shelby stood at the railing, looking out at the ocean.

“Well, it appears our contact is a no-show,” Nero sighed. “We expected as much, but it’s disappointing nonetheless.”

Otto swatted a bug from his food. “Do you think we’re in danger?”

“This mission was low-risk,” Raven smirked. “It would have been nice to ask him a few questions, but we can make do without.”

“Does this mean we’re going home?” Shelby asked.

“No, we have other business to take care of downtown,” Nero said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to tag along for that as well. After that, though, we can rejoin Diabolus and see what your classmates have been up to all day.”

“Ne'er-do-wells like them?” Otto laughed, waving away the bugs. He frowned as one bit him, but hit it away. “More trouble that we’ve gotten into, I’ll bet.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Nero dryly. “But hopefully nothing too dire. He is our ride home, after all.”

“Stop eating my chips,” Otto said to Raven, who ignored him and pulled another from the tray. He wiped his face with his sleeve, then looked out to the ocean. The light didn’t seem brighter. He didn’t feel tired or hungry, not exactly. His head didn’t feel heavier than usual, his food tasted the same. But he noticed that none of these were wrong, and he didn’t quite understand why he felt the need to notice these things.

“You all right, kid?” Raven asked, staring at him intently. 

Otto blinked. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I just feel weird, I guess.”

“Weird how?”

Otto pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.”

“Max, he’s swelling up,” Raven said, pressing a hand to his cheek. “And he’s warm.”

Shelby looked at Otto, the table, the ground, and Otto again. She bent down and picked up something very small from the ground. 

“Look at his hand,” she said, holding out her own. It cradled a tiny corpse. “Otto, you wouldn’t happen to be allergic to bees, would you?”

“I’ve never—been stung—before,” Otto wheezed. His chest felt tight. He wanted to swallow, but his throat didn’t seem to have the same idea. “But the evidence—would—suggest—I am.”

He watched them. Raven and Nero gave each other their signature look, that where nothing was said but much was expressed. Nero pulled out his phone and dialed the emergency number. Raven moved her chair closer to Otto, observing his symptoms carefully.

“It’s going to be okay, Otto,” she said. 

Shelby looked at the crowd. “Back in five ticks,” she said, and walked away. 

“Miss Trinity!” Nero snapped, exasperated, but she had already disappeared. 

Otto was beginning to feel actually horrible. Something bad was happening to him and he had trouble thinking around that fact. Something bad was happening! What were you supposed to do in cases like this? He knew for a fact he’d read up on anaphylaxis before, but somehow his head hurt and he wasn’t remembering it the exact way he wanted. His skin felt bad and his tummy felt bad and his lungs felt bad and the sunlight felt bad and _oh god where was that ambulance._

“Can I get in here?” Shelby asked, returning as mysteriously as she had disappeared. 

Otto wanted to ask what she was doing but he couldn’t quite manage it. Almost immediately, he felt a sharp pain in his thigh, and then the sensation of someone rubbing in small circles.

Otto lifted his head from his hands to peer down. Shelby waved an epipen in her free hand. “You’re welcome,” she said.

Otto focused on breathing for a few minutes. The adrenaline had definitely hit, that was for sure. But he could breathe! Though his heart was racing and his anxiety was even more intense than before, he could breathe. 

“Did you steal that?” he asked. 

In the distance, they heard sirens coming closer.

“Count your blessings, Malpense,” Shelby said, looking out to the ocean again. “Kung Fu and technobabble may seem cool, but they have almost no medicinal properties.”

The hospital limited patients to two guests at a time, so Raven glared at the nurse until it was made clear that an exception would be made this time. 

“Don’t antagonize the hospital staff,” Nero whispered edgily. “Need I remind you, I don’t have any papers proving that Otto is my son.”

“Darkdoom is on his way with the paperwork,” Raven whispered back. “He was born in 2000, right?”

Nero stared at her in disbelief. “No? He was born in 1995, just like everyone else in his year.”

“Oh.”

“Diabolus is a smart man,” Nero sighed. “He’ll figure it out.”

“No, that’s what I told a nurse,” Raven said.

“Raven!”

Shelby and Otto watched them from a hospital bed—Otto laying down, Shelby sitting cross-legged at his feet. “So, this seems like it’s going good,” she said.

“What’s our story?” Otto asked. “Raven and Nero are my mum and dad?”

“No,” Shelby said. “Raven’s too young to be your mom. But Nero’s your dad.”

“Are you my sister?”

“I don’t know, bud. I don’t know if our backstories are that deep.”

Otto watched Shelby’s face. “So, you stole for me.”

“You know me,” Shelby smiled. “Can’t keep my hands to myself.”

“Well, thanks,” Otto said. “I think I might be alive because of you.”

Shelby flopped back on the bed. “Don’t mention it.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“No.”

“You didn’t even hear what it was.”

“You’re going to ask me about the jewelry store from earlier,” Shelby said. “You’re going to ask how I knew the people inside, what they did that made me resent them, if I plan to do anything about it. And the answer is no, Otto. I’m not going to tell you.”

“This again,” Otto sighed, though it still came out as a bit of a wheeze.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s like we have to start from ground zero with you every time we bring up your past,” Otto said. “You never tell us what it was like to be… you know.”

Shelby didn’t say anything, and with the angle of her face, Otto couldn’t quite tell what she was thinking, either.

“All this ‘I work alone’ business didn’t last one week at school,” he said. “So I don’t know why you still act so high-and-mighty about it when we’ve known each other for years. It’s not like I haven’t been in the field, Shel. You don’t have special information the rest of us don’t have.”

Shelby sat up and looked Otto straight in the eye: she was mad, all right. Predictable. 

“High and mighty, huh?”

“We would help you, if you’d let us.”

Shelby looked like she wanted to punch him, but Nero and Raven were still in the room and Otto was, after all, severely incapacitated. He knew she wouldn’t fight back under these circumstances—that was why it was his best opportunity to ask. 

She put on her fake cheerfulness to say, “I think Wing will keep you company when he gets here. I’ll see you later.”

Wing did, in fact, arrive, within a few hours, though everyone else seemed to have remained with Darkdoom. Otto suspected he would not be seeing Shelby again until after he was released from the hospital.

“Are you sure you are feeling all right?” Wing asked, his brow creased with concern.

“Compared to animus, this is a walk in the park,” Otto said. “Well, maybe not. There was the potential to die more quickly but I think there will be less long-term psychological damage.”

Wing gave Otto a severe frown. “I don’t know how you can joke about such terrible things at a time like this.”

“Relax, love,” Otto said, reaching up to return a lock of black hair behind Wing’s ear. “I am really, really fine. Or I will be.”

Wing took Otto’s hand and clasped it between his own, unable to smile in the face of danger the way his partner did. Otto did not tease him further. After an afternoon of anaphylaxis and a dumb fight with a stubborn thief, he was content to enjoy the company of someone he loved and have his hand held through the remaining tests.

But, of course, it was not to be.

“Dr. Nero said Shelby saved your life,” Wing commented. 

“She did, and before you say anything, I did thank her, but I would prefer not to discuss her at this exact moment,” Otto said.

Wing frowned. “Were you fighting again?”

“Shelby and I don’t fight. We just banter a little bit, that’s all.”

“If that is the case, why did she seem so upset when she left earlier?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Otto said. “And again, I don’t want to talk about her.”

Wing looked down at their entwined hands, rubbing the soft skin below Otto’s thumb with his own. “Very well,” he consented. “I did not realize you were also upset.”

“I’m not upset!” Otto growled.

“Oh, my mistake,” Wing said innocently.

Otto closed his eyes and moaned. “Why do I date someone with such honorable intentions? Why didn’t I choose a petty and conniving boy? Someone who would really help the anger fester?”

“Just bad luck, I guess,” Wing said.

Otto opened his eyes quickly. “I didn’t mean it, Wing. I do appreciate it. I’m sorry. I’m just mad.”

“I know,” Wing said, revealing the sly grin he’d been hiding. “But I suspect I am not the one who needs to hear your apology.”

“She knew some people in town,” Otto explained. “She wouldn’t tell me about it.”

“Shelby is a private person,” Wing said. “She has always has been. Even when we were dating, she never spoke much about her life before H.I.V.E.”

“She’s so outgoing, you’d almost never notice.”

“She likes to turn the conversation back on people.” Wing shifted uncomfortably, and Otto moved over in the bed to allow the taller boy some more space to sit. Wing took the invitation and helped himself to a pillow. “She’s like you, in that way, really.”

Otto frowned. “Wow, being compared to your ex. My favorite.”

“She is our _friend_ , not an ex,” Wing said firmly. “Consider, though, what you would be like had you never encountered Overlord, and your past wasn’t forced into the light. Wouldn’t you keep some things hidden?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Otto sighed. “It seems like every time we leave the island, we get flung into my dirty laundry. It’s a little embarrassing, really.”

“No one blames you,” Wing began, but Otto shook his head.

“I know, I know,” he said. “And I promise I won’t spiral into a self-pity party. Still, with everything that’s happened, I feel like everyone knows some things about me that I’m not proud of. And I know I shouldn’t be ashamed, but with everyone knowing, it just feels so complicated.”

Wing pulled Otto close, his arm a protective shield against his tumultuous self-image. “Allow Shelby those same fears. You of all people do not need to borrow trouble.”

“You’ve got that right, big guy.”

“I wonder if Number One was allergic to bees,” Darkdoom said, watching Otto and Wing join their friends at their table onboard the _Megalodon_.

“If he was, he would have kept it under wraps,” Raven replied. “He was too smart to let his secrets spread far.”

Nero shook his head ruefully. “Mr. Malpense never ceases to amaze. Always getting into trouble at the exactly wrong time.”

“Sometimes I wonder if we wouldn’t have saved ourselves a lot of trouble if we’d just left him at that orphanage,” Raven said.

“You know me better than that,” Nero glanced at her. “We keep our friends close, and our enemies closer.”

At the table, Shelby offered Otto half a cupcake, which Otto accepted. Nigel and Laura showed Wing the game they had downloaded from the internet. Wing frowned as he tried it, much to the amusement of Franz, who had also struggled to master it. 

“They’ll learn the same lesson… eventually.”


	7. Shelby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks. We did it. We made it to the last chapter (!!!). Thanks for coming along for the ride. This one will be a little different—it is a mixture of survivor’s guilt, girl drama, repression, and some good old-fashioned projection. 
> 
> This takes place a few weeks after Aftershock and incorporates some of the themes from Deadlock, so be prepared for spoilers for both. 
> 
> When I came up with this fic, this story was actually the first thing that popped into my head. Initially, the idea was to write this one story about Shelby as a one-shot, but I ended up making a whole sequence out of it. Long story short, I have been thinking about this story for four months and I have stayed up past midnight two nights in a row trying to hammer out what I wanted, because this chapter has always been the dream. 
> 
> I hope my story makes you sad. But if it doesn't, too bad! I wrote it for me. <3

It went like this:

“Laura,” said Otto, his panic finally surfacing. “What’s he talking about?”

“Tell him, Ms. Brand,” said the woman, Minerva. “Tell him what a fool he’s been. Tell him how you were the one that gave us the location of the Hunt. Tell him how you tricked him into obtaining that information for us. Tell him everything.”

And then came the tears. Otto was crying, or trying not to, but Shelby would remember later that he seemed hurt but not shocked and that pricked just as deeply as Laura’s heaving sobs. Her best friend. Her confidante, her roommate, her partner-in-crime. 

“Oh, God, Laura,” Shelby said, tears in her eyes too. “Oh hon, please tell me you didn’t do this.”

“But I did, Shel. This is all my fault.”

They had Laura’s family. And then, all of a sudden, they had Shelby’s, too. 

Two weeks later, they were home—or what was left of it. Laura, Lucy, Nigel, Tom, Penny were all captured. Nero hoped they were alive, but what was hope in the face of the Disciples?

Otto was expelled. 

Raven was gone. 

Shelby, Franz, and Wing made up the entirety of the Alpha stream. Everyone else? They had been killed. This was it.

She knew something in her was broken. Every morning Shelby woke up and stared at Laura’s empty bed and thought, calmly, _Someday I will die._ It wasn’t a positive sign.

She stuck close to Wing and Franz during the day. The other students were curious. They ogled the trio in the halls and stopped whispering things as they entered classrooms. If Wing and Franz weren’t interested in spending time in the common areas, Shelby went straight back to her room. The others were more confident when they could get her alone. 

They finally succeed in the library. 

“How are you holding up?” asked Valentina, taking a seat at Shelby’s table without further introductions. 

_Someday, I will die,_ Shelby thought. She said, “Fine.”

Shelby did not believe she and Valentina had ever spoken before. She knew her name from somewhere. Boys’ water polo, maybe.

“You know, the girls and I were talking,” Valentina said. “If you need anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to reach out. Anything we can do.”

“Okay.”

Valentina was a true Poli-Fi student; she kept her smile sympathetic in the face of icy words. “It sounds like it’s been so hard.”

“Yup,” Shelby said. “It pretty much sucked.”

“How are Franz and Wing? Both their boyfriends, gone. I can’t imagine what they must be going through.”

Shelby stared at the other girl in a way she hoped would sting. “We’re managing.”

Valentina’s smile turned sardonic, as though they were playing a game. “You’re lucky you didn’t lose anyone close, Shelby,” she said, finally standing. “Let them know that we’re here to help, will you? No one should go through this alone.”

Shelby fell in step with the boys as they walked to class. 

“Are you okay?” Wing asked. 

“Yes,” Shelby said, fuming. She couldn’t quite identify what it was that had gotten under her skin, but she knew that if she saw Valentina again she was going to introduce her septum to her cerebellum. Dumb bitch. 

Franz observed Shelby and told her, “You look mad.”

“Well I’m not,” Shelby said. “So can it.”

She charged forward, cutting short any further conversation until they reached Dr. Nero’s office. Franz and Wing exchanged a look. 

“Good afternoon,” Nero said, his students seating themselves. “I’ve graded your essays on corporate espionage. Mr. Argentblum, excellent work—your classmates might benefit from reading your analysis.”

That was his way of saying Shelby and Wing’s essays weren’t particularly good, but Shelby was relieved he did not pursue the matter further. She could guess whose essay was worse. Nero had a lecture prepared for the day and, for once, he required nothing more of his students than taking notes. 

It was hard, being in his class. Shelby kept waiting for him to stare them down as he demanded answers for their behavior on the Hunt—why didn’t they pay more attention to what Laura was doing? Why didn’t they stop her? Shelby had been closer with Laura than anyone—even Lucy. They ate together, went to class together, slept in the same room. So why didn’t she ask more questions about Dekker? Didn’t she have the faintest idea that something was wrong?

But Nero never asked these things, and Shelby remained on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He sat at his desk explaining a graph as though they did not have unfinished business. Shelby thought she might throw up.

When class was over, Shelby was out the door before Franz and Wing had zipped their bags closed.

“You should eat something,” Wing said gently. Shelby looked up from the spot on the table where she had been glaring. 

“I’m not hungry,” she said. “I’ve had a stomachache all day.”

Shelby could see it, this time, when Franz and Wing shared their significant look.

“If you have something to say to me, then say it,” she snapped. 

“I did,” Wing said, taking that irritatingly reasonable tone he took when he thought she was being silly. “You should eat something.”

Shelby’s chair screeched as she pushed herself from the table. She stomped to the bar, where she loaded her plate exclusively with romaine lettuce before dousing it with a serving of ranch dressing. She dropped the plate on the table and aggressively began shoveling the whole mess in her mouth. Wing looked unsettled. 

“You are obviously being upset,” Franz said, his tone conciliatory. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Shelby swallowed another wad of salad. “Nope.”

Wing reached for her hand. Shelby stared. He had done this many times when they were dating. But that was a long time ago. It wasn’t right. She thought of Otto and felt sick. 

“I have to go,” she said, and ran.

She spent the night throwing up. _That’s the price for eating lettuce and ranch,_ Shelby thought to herself, though she was aware she was lying. 

Stomach burning with pain, Shelby shivered on the cool tiles of her bathroom floor and reflected on—what else?—being a jewel thief. She’d spent her childhood braving foreign sewers and vents to take on some of the most impressive security systems in the world. She still thought in terms of pins and tumblers, teasing one issue after another until she could twist the whole mechanism to her advantage. 

She didn’t know how to twist this.

She was alone. She always had been. This was by design. Ms. Leon may have thought she was clever when she spoiled the surprise on their first day and revealed Shelby’s history as the Wraith. But that would have come out eventually. Everyone knew Shelby was the Wraith, but she was satisfied that her companions knew little else. 

Her past was tucked in a wallet safely behind her ribs. There she held the memories of unsupervised mornings among a stone-silent household. She had hours alone. She left cold voicemails for a distant mother and spent hours finding excuses to avoid conversing with a resentful father. The hotels. The boredom. She wished that her parents would notice something, _anything,_ about her. 

Shelby had grown accustomed to disappointment. 

The nightmares started after the Hunt. She had swiped a bottle of sleeping pills from the infirmary; it was easier than trying to fight. She tried swallowing a pill, but she didn’t keep it down. 

She did not sleep all night. 

In the morning, her stomach still hurt. Shelby lay in a nest of sweaty towels on the bathroom floor. Through the door, she looked at Laura’s bed and then her own. She had stopped puking, at least. 

“You’re lucky,” Shelby whispered, Valentina’s comments still echoing in her mind. 

And she was—lucky, that is. Three survivors. The rest of their cohort was dead, for all they knew. And yet Shelby lived. 

Broken, perhaps. But she didn’t want to believe that was true.

In some ways, it would have been easier if she had been captured. She was used to sitting in silence with Wing and Franz—the former, wondering if he’d ever see Otto again; the latter, wondering if Nigel was even alive. He had been shot, you know. Shelby wished he, Nigel, could have been the one to make it home. Then, Franz wouldn’t have to worry so much, and if she had been captured, at least she would have had a reason to be sad. 

After she’d been shot in Kiev—what a dumb mistake _that_ was—Shelby had limped onto her father’s jet from the hotel, terrified that she’d have to account for her injury. She’d hid her bandages beneath ugly sweatpants and thrown her bloody things down the hotel laundry chute, but she’d had nothing for the pain. 

So she limped. Her father was already strapped in for take-off. 

“You know, Shelby,” he’d said, barely glancing up from his tablet. “This deal is going to pay for your college education. No state schools for you! Georgetown might be good. Harvard Law, if we can start you in a good high school program. I’ll email your mom—she might have ideas already.”

Shelby stood there a moment, her calf throbbing and the crack of the shot still ringing in her ears. She would not cry, she resolved. Not now.

She made it to her seat, relieved that her secret was safe and yet longing for her father to notice she was hurting.

That scar still curved around her leg.

In the afternoon, her Blackbox buzzed: class was cancelled. There was a replacement activity, but Shelby stopped reading after the first sentence. Setting her Blackbox on the toilet seat, she forced herself onto her knees and grabbed her bottle of sleeping pills. She felt guilty about this, the pills. She knew somehow that she’d be in more trouble for this than any other stunt she’d pulled since coming to H.I.V.E. She let one chalky tablet sit on her tongue for a moment before she swallowed it dry. She was so tired. And she didn’t want to think anymore.

She would only ever recall the skeleton of the next day. When she woke up, the pain had been better. 

Wing called. Was she coming to class? They hadn’t seen her. Was she okay?

She did not remember hanging up, or anything else. She deduced she’d gotten dressed before she walked to Nero’s office alone. When she arrived, the office was empty. She dropped her backpack and walked to the wall, where Nero hung newspaper clippings reporting his students’ successes. 

She was aware she was cold—they told her later she had been visibly shaking. 

“Miss Trinity?” Nero said sharply. Shelby turned, startled. They locked eyes, frozen in time for ten seconds. Shelby’s throat hitched. Nero said, “You need a doctor.”

“No,” Shelby whispered.

Nero went for his phone. Shelby wanted to stop him, but Wing and Franz were beside her suddenly, pushing her into a chair against her loud complaints. 

“She’s burning up, sir.” Wing said to Nero.

“Don’t touch me,” Shelby protested, trying to pull away. Wing and Franz stepped back, but hovered as though she might splinter into a thousand pieces in front of them. 

“She’s also got a fever,” Nero reported into the speaker. “Please hurry.”

“I don’t want to go,” Shelby said. “I’ll pay attention, I promise.”

Nero was staring at her again and Shelby wondered if he was going to be angry with her—about the Hunt or the pills or something else. She was not a limping twelve-year-old anymore and she did not want to be noticed. He did not look away.

“Shelby,” he said to her. “I think you are very seriously ill. You need medical attention.”

“But I’m not supposed to!” she said, panicked to find her eyes watering. 

Nero’s face quirked with confusion. “What on earth do you mean?”

She refused to say anything else until the medics came to collect her. Or, at least, she remembered it that way.

Wing went with her. He stayed with her as long as he could—which turned out not to be very long. 

“We’ll talk after your surgery,” he said to her. 

“I don’t want to,” she begged. “Please don’t make me.”

“You have to,” Wing said. “Your appendix burst.”

“I’m fine!”

Wing looked at her as though he was seeing a stranger. “No. You are not.”

He kissed her forehead before she was rolled away. Shelby fought the anaesthesia for as long as she could; she fell asleep almost instantly.

She woke up. They tried to explain.

“You gave us quite a scare—”

“—peritonitis—”

“—surgery was a success, we removed your—”

“—an adverse reaction to the medication—”

“—rest and fluids—”

“—a coma, unfortunately, but—”

“—you’re not out of the woods yet, Miss Trinity.”

Two weeks had passed. 

When she had fully roused herself, Shelby found that her stomach was stitched up and swollen with infection. Two weeks, just like that. But she was getting better.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” a nurse told her. “You should have come to see us when you first started feeling symptoms. You know you could have died?”

Shelby stared at the nurse until he left. They said that after the Hunt, too.

“Miss Trinity?” The receptionist tapped at the door. “You have visitors.”

Shelby inhaled sharply. “No.”

“It’s only Wing and Franz. They’ve visited almost every day. They’re worried about you.”

Shelby turned her face away so the receptionist would not see the tear that slipped down her cheek. “I’m just not ready for company.”

“That’s okay. Maybe tomorrow, huh?”

She held the boys off for several tomorrows.

Shelby was under no illusions of what she was like. She’d turned away hopeful boys before—boys with loftier hopes than mere hospital visits. Boys who went away red-faced, hissing words like “frigid” and “bitch” under their breaths whenever they passed in the hallway. Wing was still the only person she’d ever dated, just a few months into their third year.

He broke up with her during a water polo match, which was particularly brave of him, Shelby thought. Her friends, the boys anyway, tended to avoid the matches to save themselves from the embarrassment of becoming physically aroused in front of everyone—and Wing was no more immune to wet, rippling muscles than anyone else their age.

(Shelby was.)

“I’m sorry,” he said, after he’d told her.

“I get it,” she said. 

“You’re taking this better than I expected,” he told her.

“Me too,” she said. She left early with him, so that he could carry her backpack (he’d ended up embarrassed after all). 

Laura had waited all week for the waterworks, but Shelby had held her head high through the whole thing. She wasn’t even mad when Otto and Wing had started dating a few months later. She was happy, even.

Years had passed, but Shelby still didn’t know why breaking up with her boyfriend was easy when letting her friends visit her in the hospital felt nearly impossible. 

Nero made her talk to a counselor while she recovered. Which is to say, a counselor showed up at 2:30pm every day and when Shelby asked why, the counselor was evasive, which meant it was under Nero’s orders.

Shelby didn’t love the sound of that, but the part of her that needed help overruled the part of her that refused to ask for it, and she talked. She confessed to the sleeping pills, which were duly confiscated, but she was not punished. She had been worried about that.

The counselor wanted to talk about Shelby’s feelings; Shelby wanted to talk about the Hunt.

She had been betrayed by her best friend. Or, her friend was manipulated and threatened into betraying the school to save her family’s lives. When they were running away from the wreckage in Siberia, the cold air had smelled like exhaust fumes and burning flesh and they never could quite wash that smell out of their clothes. 

“It’s been three days. You should speak to your friends.”

Nothing! That was what she had done. She’d been having fun—driving a tank, of all things—and Minerva’s plot hit her like a slap in the face. 

“You should know that these responses are very common after going through a traumatic experience. I’d like to keep seeing you.”

The day they came back Shelby turned over their bedroom, looking for the clues she might have missed when Laura got dressed in the morning and brushed her teeth after breakfast and pulled back her hair with a fine-tooth comb. Shelby tore apart the comb and the closet and the cabinet, so sure that she would find an explanation to justify what happened.

But there was nothing, and Shelby felt like even more of a failure for not finding it.

“You seem preoccupied today.”

Shelby didn’t like being honest, but she was. “I just keep asking myself the same question, over and over.”

“What question?”

“Why—” Shelby cleared her throat. “Why am I here… when so many people who were loved are gone?”

Her counselor frowned. 

Once, Shelby and Otto stood side-by-side, watching Wing finish his training with Raven for the day. Wing waved at them. They waved back, laughing at the frenzied hairdo that appeared from beneath Wing’s helmet.

“Will I sound like an idiot if I say that makes me love him more?” Otto said, smiling.

“Maybe,” Shelby told him. “But you’re his boyfriend. You’re entitled.”

Otto glanced at her—he always seemed perplexed that Wing and Shelby remained friends after their romance ended, but Shelby thought Wing understood it better than she did.

“Well, I’m gonna go downstairs,” Otto said, winking at her. “Might catch him before he gets all his clothes on.”

Shelby laughed at him. “Good luck.” 

Privately, she was glad she didn’t have someone to do that to her. 

Franz and Wing hovered in the doorway hesitantly, as though they expected Shelby to begin yelling at them from her bed or perhaps seize and die before their very eyes. 

Shelby couldn’t bring herself to smile, but she propped herself up on her elbows. “Hey.”

The boys walked in. They tried to control their faces, but Shelby could tell they were surprised. Something had been dead inside her since they lost their friends and she was too tired to hide it from them again. 

They sat on the bed and watched her with concerned expressions that Shelby couldn’t stand to look at for long. She lowered herself back onto the bed, pressing her cheek against her pillow and trying to convince herself that she was not miserable. Shelby knew she looked like she was sulking. She would explain that she was not angry if she knew how. It was easier, instead, to be devoid of herself until they left. She kept her back turned and her eyes on the wall. 

“How are you feeling?” Wing asked softly. 

“Don’t ask me stupid questions,” Shelby groaned, closing her eyes. After her last session with her counselor, she was not letting herself have any feelings, because the only feelings she had were bad ones and she was tired of coming to this conclusion. Her heart was gray and cement and this was only natural because Shelby didn’t love things. Her counselor said so and so it was the truth.

Her heart had been broken all along. Funny, that.

“Something happened in the dining hall the other day,” Franz said, but Shelby didn’t laugh when he told the story. 

“I’ve been reading a book,” Wing commented, but Shelby didn’t even lift her head when he mentioned the Hope Diamond.

Wing and Franz looked at each other, disappointed and worried. “Maybe we should go,” Wing said. “We’re tiring you out.”

Franz rested a hand on Shelby’s unfriendly shoulder and squeezed. “I’m glad you’re getting better,” he told her. “We will come see you again tomorrow, okay? We love you no matter what.”

Shelby’s eyes watered. She wanted so much to tamp down that feeling, whatever it was that Franz was giving her, but because it was not exactly bad, she did not know how to suffocate it. Franz and Wing ambled toward the door. 

Shelby sobbed into her pillow.

“Shel?” Wing asked uncertainly. He was at her elbow instantly. “Tell me.”

Shelby felt dizzy and mean. “Haven’t you heard?” she asked nastily. “I’m lucky to be alive and being sad is completely normal.”

Wing blinked. “Close the door,” he said to Franz, who obliged. “You need to sit up,” he told Shelby. 

She found it hard to look at anything other than her knees. Wing moved close on one side, and Franz wrapped an arm around her from the other. She sniffled pathetically. 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “This is so—so embarrassing.”

Wing grabbed her hand. “Well, it isn’t like the rest of us haven’t had dramatic hospital visits. You’re in good company.” 

“Am I?” Shelby asked. “You had someone there for you.”

“Someone like… our friends?” Franz suggested. “Because I remember you being there when I broke my arm.”

“You visited me that time I had pneumonia,” Wing added.

“Like Nigel.” Shelby wiped some snot on her sheets. “Like Otto.”

Wing shifted next to them in the bed, and Shelby thought that, perhaps, she should not have put this conversation off for two years.

Before they could say anything else, Shelby pressed on. “I just think, like, my life’s always going to be like this. I spent a lot of time alone as a kid, right? And I’ll be alone after graduation, too, and—”

“What do you mean by that?” Wing asked sharply. “Who says you’ll be alone after graduation?”

“People,” Shelby sighed. “They’ve noticed.”

“Which people?” Shelby tried to shrug it off, but Wing didn’t let her change the subject. “No, which people?”

“The day before this all happened,” Shelby gestured at her IV, “some girl, Valentina, I guess, cornered me in the library and told me I was lucky I didn’t lose anyone close during the Hunt.”

“She said _what_?” Franz demanded. 

“And, um,” Shelby said. “My counselor. Said something.”

Wing’s voice curdled suspiciously. “Said what, exactly?”

Shelby’s voice became very small. “My counselor just thinks it’s concerning that I haven’t wanted to date anyone since you, Wing, which I was already thinking about because of what happened during the Hunt, and—”

She started crying again, harder. Wing pulled her close, letting her vent into his shoulder as she tried to collect herself. “It’s not fair that you lose the people you care about and I get to live. And I know that sounds bad and I know I need to work on it and I’ve been talking about it, I really have.” 

“But they’re ‘concerned,’” Wing said. “About you.”

“I guess?” Shelby shrugged. “They seem worried and that’s making _me_ worried and I just… I thought I was okay. You know?” She wiped at her eyes.

“I think I’m going to go have a chat with your doctor,” Wing said, standing abruptly. “But what would you think about watching a movie together, just us?”

“I like that idea,” Franz said, grabbing the remote for Shelby’s TV. “We can pick something out while he is talking.”

Wing stormed from the room, radiating righteous irritation. Franz flipped through the film library.

“We do care,” Franz said to her. 

“I know you do,” Shelby admitted. “But it's not the same, is it?”

Franz harrumphed. ”I'm not going to have an argument with you on why I'm glad you're alive,” he said. Shelby said nothing, letting him flip through the library without comment. “What about _Willow_?”

“I might fall asleep,” Shelby warned him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m just… tired.”

“Well that’s what happens when you burst your appendix,” Franz informed her. “You get tired.”

“Way to keep it real, Argentblum.”

Sometimes, when she was home, Shelby walked to visit her sister’s grave. It wasn’t far. Her mother and father wouldn’t like it if they knew where she was going, but that was true of nearly everywhere she went.

Shelby replaced the flowers in the little vase and sat on the grass for a while. Her sister had died just a few weeks after her wedding. 

So sudden, people said. So young.

The cemetery was silent. Some people spoke to graves—Shelby saw no point. Her sister was dead. Nothing could change that.

“I am _not_ getting married,” she had told her sister, scratching at her itchy flower girl’s dress.

“Please, Shelby,” their mother sighed, adjusting the veil and the white gown. “Not today.”

“Just wait until you meet a boy you like,” her sister grinned. “You might change your mind.”

Then the coordinator ushered them away to the ceremony. From the ceremony to the reception, from the reception to the honeymoon. Her sister said she would call, but she forgot, apparently. Shelby never spoke to her sister again. 

Overhead, the sun began to set. As Shelby walked home, she patted a stone in her pocket—the valuable kind. She'd brought it back from her trip to Kiev.

Wing and Franz took it upon themselves to escort Shelby to her cell after she was released from her doctors’ care.

“Freedom!” Shelby cried, barreling into the hallway.

“Take your time,” Wing chided. “We have nowhere to be.”

“I just want to be out!” she exclaimed, rolling her shoulders. “I feel like I’ve been in there forever.”

“Well, you did almost die,” Franz reminded her. 

“Here lies Shelby Trinity, who tried to tough it out,” Shelby intoned with mock seriousness. “Oops.”

“It’s not funny,” Wing said. “And the next time you get so much as a paper cut, I expect you to get it checked out.”

“I don’t take medical advice from ninjas,” Shelby teased.

“Really?” Franz eyeballed her. “Because I heard that thieves are no better.”

“Guilty as charged,” Shelby sighed. “That was stupid of me, and I freely admit it.”

Wing nudged Shelby’s shoulder with his own. “I am just glad you’re okay,” he told her. More quietly, he added, “You seem better than before. After the Hunt, I mean.”

“The counseling is helping,” Shelby said. “A lot.”

“And what about the other thing?” Wing asked. 

Shelby looked ahead. Further along the hallway, she saw Valentina and her friends. They didn’t seem to notice Shelby or the boys. Go figure.

“My counselor promised to do more research about it before advising me further,” Shelby told him. 

Franz tilted his head slightly. “But what about you?”

They were interrupted by Dr. Nero and Colonel Francisco as they turned the corner.

“Miss Trinity,” Nero said. “It’s good to see you up and about.”

Shelby smiled shyly. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll see you in class tomorrow afternoon?” he asked. 

“Absolutely.”

Nodding politely, Nero and Francisco carried on, but Shelby turned.

“Dr. Nero,” she said. Her instructors paused, looking back at her expectantly. “Have you heard anything? About our friends?”

“Not as yet, Miss Trinity,” Nero told her. “But it’s early days.”

Shelby ushed the boys back toward their accommodation block. When she was sure they were out of earshot, she said, “We have to help look for them.”

Franz rolled his eyes. “Five minutes of freedom and she’s already starting trouble,” he sighed. “That didn’t last long.”

“That’s our Shel,” Wing said. “At least we know she’s back.”

They dropped her off at her room. She released the doors, and was surprised to find the bathroom and bedroom completely spotless. No dirty towels. The bed had been made. 

“We clean when we’re nervous,” Wing explained. 

“Oh. Well, thanks.”

Wing studied Shelby. “Really, about the other thing. How do you feel about it?”

Shelby hesitated. She thought about being twelve and tying strips from a ripped pillowcase around a bloody gash in a hotel bathroom, and how she wanted to stop living her life that way. 

“I’ll have to get back to you on that one,” she said.

“Take your time,” said Wing, just before the doors closed. “Like I said, we have nowhere to be.”


End file.
